I stare at an empty bottle like a loaded gun. And maybe it is – I’ve never sat and thought about it – but I’ve warned you.
“Hello, my name is Shana and I’m an addict.”
But meetings never changed who I was – only suppressed what I did. I often wondered if it ran in the family; maybe I was destined for this life.
I woke up drunk on New Years day and pretended to be sober.
Now the sun has fallen and this empty room is crashing down on me. It is crushing my lungs and I’m struggling to obtain precious oxygen. Here it is. This liquid devil reminding me that something is wrong and the solution will only ever be found at the bottom of a bone dry bottle. I guess what I need to say is the truth.
Drinking isn’t fun anymore.
In simple terms: I am an alcoholic. I will drink as quickly as possible because I know what comes after. Clear, blue eyes gaze at the people around me and a smile hides that I’m dying inside, just contemplating on whether or not to buy another bottle.
I don’t drink anymore because I know who I am. I cradle bottles with the intention of finishing them; and when left alone, I’ve never failed. But this habit I have controlled with substitutions of substance abuse. I’ve crawled out of a somber hole, just because I felt like creating a prettier one that falls farther into an abyss. Sobriety is a lesson I should have learned second-hand, however, I suppose the message didn’t get through my thick skull.